Viper’s Woman (Devil’s Crown MC #2)

Chapter One

Mara leaned forward, squinting through the downpour. The wipers struggled, whining against glass already streaked with grime. Her hands started to cramp from gripping the wheel too tight. The heater had long given out, and every breath fogged the cracked dashboard.

Her car, a beat-up Chevy she’d hot-wired behind a bar two towns back, rattled every time she took a curve. The engine made a low, sick sound that didn’t inspire confidence.

At least it was still moving. That was more than she could say for herself.

Her reflection ghosted faintly in the windshield. Her eyes were ringed in exhaustion, her cheek smeared with grease. Mara was twenty-three and running on caffeine and spite.

She’d been on the road for nearly two days, pausing only for gas and cheap coffee. Sleep was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Not when every mile she put between herself and her father’s club meant one more chance to stay alive.

The gas light blinked on again, a warning she didn’t want to think about.

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, voice hoarse. “Join the club.”

The empty road didn’t answer. It hadn’t for hours.

She should’ve felt free. Mara could feel the wind in her hair, and there were no orders barked in her ear, and no one watching her every move. That had been the dream, once. Freedom. But freedom didn’t look like this. Freedom was cold, wet, hungry, and terrified.

Her stomach twisted as she thought of what she’d left behind.

The Blood Vultures MC had raised her. No, he had raised her. Rex Dalton. Her father, her nightmare. President of one of the meanest outlaw MCs on this side of the state.

He’d built his empire on blood, threats, and iron-clad debts, the kind that always came due. When the time came to settle his latest one, he hadn’t looked to his brothers, his allies, or his guns.

He’d looked to her. The words still echoed in her head, sharp as broken glass.

“The Serpents want collateral. She’ll do.”

Collateral. As if she were a piece of property. A bargaining chip. Flesh for trade.

She’d been walking past the office that night, beer bottles clinking in the next room, laughter spilling over the music. Her father’s voice had cut through it all, low, angry, and final. She hadn’t waited to hear the rest.

Mara had packed a bag, taken the cash she’d hidden in her boot, grabbed the fake ID she’d bought from one of the hang-arounds months ago, and ran before sunrise.

The first few hours had been pure adrenaline. Her heart had pounded as the city lights disappeared behind her. Every sign on the highway had looked like a promise.

However, adrenaline ran out fast. Now there was only exhaustion and the sick certainty that it wasn’t over. Men like her father didn’t lose easily. He’d send someone after her. Someone mean enough to drag her back by the hair if he had to.

She could almost hear him saying it. You think you can outrun me, girl?

Mara pressed harder on the gas, as if speed could drown out the voice in her head. The Chevy coughed. The needle on the gas gauge dropped past empty.

“Don’t,” she whispered, slapping the steering wheel. “Not yet, please!”

The car sputtered and died. The headlights dimmed, the engine’s low growl fading into silence.

For a second, all she heard was the rain.

“Damn it.” She slammed her palms against the wheel, then let her head fall forward, eyes squeezed shut.

The inside of the car smelled like wet leather and old smoke. Her throat burned from holding back the tears clawing their way up. Crying wouldn’t help. Crying hadn’t saved her before.

She forced herself upright, breathing slowly until her pulse eased enough to think. There’d been a sign a few miles back. Something about a motel.

The kind of place truckers used when they couldn’t make the next town. Maybe she could crash there for a few hours, figure out her next move. Her father would check the main routes first. She’d stick to the backroads, the forgotten places.

Mara grabbed her backpack from the passenger seat.

Everything she owned was inside. It contained three shirts, one change of jeans, a cheap burner phone she hadn’t turned on yet, and a pocketknife sharp enough to matter if things went bad.

The cash, or what little was left, she had wrapped in a sock at the bottom.

She zipped it shut, tugged her hood up, and pushed open the door.

The cold hit her like a slap. Rain soaked through her jacket in seconds. She pulled it tighter, head down, and started walking along the shoulder of the road.

Mud splashed up her jeans, her boots squelching with each step. The night pressed close, thick and heavy, broken only by the occasional flash of lightning in the distance.

She kept her ears open. Mara had always listened more than she spoke. Growing up, silence was the difference between staying invisible and getting hurt.

A truck passed after a while, its headlights sweeping over her before fading. She turned away, heart hammering, afraid the driver might stop. She couldn’t afford anyone’s kindness. Kindness got people curious, and curiosity got her caught.

Fifteen minutes later, a glow appeared ahead. A flickering neon sign through the rain. The Ridge Motel. Vacancy.

It looked like the kind of place where people didn’t ask questions. The paint peeled from the siding, the roof sagged in the middle, and a Coke machine stood by the door with an out of order sign curling off its front. To Mara, it was perfect.

She trudged to the office, dripping on the thin welcome mat. A woman with dark roots and too much eyeliner sat behind the counter. A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray beside her.

“Need a room?” the woman asked without looking up from the small TV behind the counter.

“One night,” Mara said, pulling a few crumpled bills from her pocket. “Cash.”

The woman’s eyes flicked to her face, lingered on the water dripping from her hair, then slid to the fake ID Mara pushed across the counter. Whatever she saw there was enough.

“Room six,” she said, voice flat. “Round back. No smoking, no noise. Checkout’s at 10:00.”

Mara nodded. “Thanks.”

The key was cold in her hand. She stepped back into the rain and followed the row of doors until she found number six. The lock stuck before giving way with a metallic click. Inside smelled like damp carpet and lemon cleaner. A single lamp lit the room in a weak yellow glow.

She shut the door, threw the bolt, and set the chain. Only then did she let herself breathe.

Her reflection caught in the mirror above the sink. Mara looked pale, gaunt, eyes rimmed in shadows. The girl staring back didn’t look like a biker’s daughter anymore. She looked like a ghost.

She pulled off her jacket, tossing it over the chair, and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. The springs creaked beneath her weight.

Her stomach growled. She dug into her bag, found a squashed granola bar, and took slow bites, chewing until the knot in her throat eased enough to swallow.

The rain outside turned heavier, pounding the roof until it drowned out everything else. For the first time in days, she wasn’t moving. That stillness was both relief and terror.

She should’ve felt safe behind a locked door. Instead, the quiet made her skin crawl. Every sound felt sharper. The tick of the clock, the groan of the pipes, and the whisper of wind against the window.

She unzipped her bag again and pulled out the pocketknife, flipping the blade open with practiced ease. It wasn’t much, but it made her feel less helpless.

The sound of a motorcycle somewhere outside made her freeze.

It was faint, just a low rumble under the rain, but her body reacted before her mind caught up. Heart pounding, she crossed the room and peered through the gap in the curtains.

The parking lot was mostly empty. A single streetlight buzzed near the office, throwing pale light over puddles and cracked pavement. Nothing.

The sound faded. Probably just a local heading home. Still, she stayed by the window a moment longer, knife gripped tight, before forcing herself to step back.

“Paranoid,” she muttered, trying for humor. “Next thing you know, you’ll start naming your knife.”

Her laugh sounded hollow even to her own ears.

Mara set the blade within reach on the nightstand and pulled off her boots. Her feet ached, her socks soaked through. She rubbed at her calves, trying to coax warmth back into her legs. When that failed, she lay back against the pillow, staring up at the water-stained ceiling.

Mara kept her ears open, listening. She’d always listened ever since she was a child and had learned that being quiet was safer than being seen.

She turned, laying on her side, and stared at the wall until her eyes blurred.

The paint was peeling, the pattern of cracks almost pretty in the half-light.

She tried to focus on that. Anything but the memory of her father’s voice or the roar of the engines that haunted her every time she closed her eyes.

Sleep tugged at her edges, heavy and slow.

Still, every time she drifted close, her mind betrayed her.

The darkness behind her eyelids wasn’t soft.

It came alive with sounds she knew too well.

The thud of boots on concrete, the low rumble of engines, her father’s voice echoing through smoke and laughter.

Then came the laughter. The kind that scraped down her spine.

“She’ll do.”

“She’s good collateral.”

“Don’t worry, they’ll treat her nice enough.”

Each word pressed against her chest until she couldn’t breathe.

She saw their faces. Men she’d known all her life, her father’s brothers, their patches glinting red in the light of the bar.

They were smiling. Grinning. Watching her like she was something to bargain with, not someone who’d grown up cleaning their cuts and pouring their beers.

In the dream, she tried to speak, but her voice didn’t work.

The floor tilted. The sound of engines grew louder, closer, until the walls of the clubhouse shuddered.

Hands grabbed her arms, rough and heavy, dragging her backward.

She could smell oil and whiskey and smoke. Someone laughed near her ear.

She jerked, trying to break free, but the harder she fought, the more the dream tightened around her. Hot breath, the weight of hands, her father’s voice again. “You think you can run from me, girl? You’re mine until I say otherwise.”

Her lungs burned. The air thickened.

Then suddenly she was small again. Mara was barefoot, sitting on the steps of the clubhouse while the bikes roared away into the night. She could still hear her father shouting orders inside, but back then she hadn’t understood the words.

She’d sat with her knees pulled to her chest, staring out into the dark and dreaming of someone who might one day come for her. A hero. A savior.

In those childish dreams, he was faceless but kind. He’d ride in on a gleaming bike, cut through the noise and chaos, and hold out a hand to her. He’d say her name like it meant something. He’d take her far away. To somewhere quiet, somewhere clean, and somewhere she could finally breathe.

Of course that was just a story she’d told herself when she was little and didn’t know better. There were no saviors. No white knights. No one rode in to rescue girls like her.

Reality was harsher. Crueler. The only person who was ever going to save her was herself.

The dream twisted again and her savior’s hand became her father’s grip.

Mara gasped awake before the last word finished. The room was still. Her heart thudded against her ribs hard enough to hurt. Sweat slicked her skin despite the chill seeping through the window.

For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. Then the motel came back into focus. Four cracked walls. The steady hum of the rain. The knife glinting faintly on the nightstand.

She swallowed hard, pressing a trembling hand to her throat.

“Just a dream,” she whispered. “Just a dream.”